


War Met Death (in a Waffle House Parking Lot)

by Thornwood Drive (ithefantasticfanatic)



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Dream is War, I'm sorry I do not know how to tag, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Technoblade is Death, it's a whole thing, modern gods at least, they're 'faces' of concepts, though they're not really gods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithefantasticfanatic/pseuds/Thornwood%20Drive
Summary: War met Death in a Waffle House Parking lot.---Dream, the newest Face of War, was never very impressed with Death. The past six had been pushovers, too consumed by their role of "peaceful" and "patient" to pose much of a challenge. Which was why when the pink twink took up the Scythe, Dream hadn't expected much.The cut clean across his neck proved maybe this Death wasn't quite satisfied as an acolyte.--Featuring: Quackity getting broken up with so hard he becomes the god of it, Tommy Tokyo Drifting down the River Styx, Wilbur getting too distracted taking naps to pull off a villain arc, Schlatt not quite a god but certainly causing problems, Techno as the immortal incarnation of a vibe check, and Dream realizing maybe Death is not so peaceful after all.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Sam | Awesamdude, Caleb you monster this fic was already so fricking long-, Clay | Dream/Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), It's a bit later in the fic btw
Comments: 247
Kudos: 872





	1. War Meets Death

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fallen Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947882) by [DepressedPidgen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepressedPidgen/pseuds/DepressedPidgen). 



War met Death in a Waffle House Parking Lot. 

Honestly, it was probably downright irresponsible it’d taken him this long. He was _War;_ Death was kinda an important part of that whole thing. Right? Right?

Hard to tell, when It seems to avoid you like there was a plague going around. Maybe if there was, there’d be an excuse for why the newest face of his old acolyte was _so_ busy that It only felt the need to flash its cloak-covered face when the fighting was gone and War was bored enough to leave. 

But, whatever. That wasn’t his problem. Or business. Or bruised ego. Not at all.

It didn’t matter. After all, Death was here to serve War. And if It felt like doing so at a distance, so be it. Sure, he had a somewhat amicable relationship with the last Death; an older woman, with pockmarked skin, twitchy fingers, and wiry hair, who took joy in the ‘peaceful’ part of her title, but scrunched her nose at the battle tableaus he’d meticulously constructed. It disappointed him, one of the many souls of his lineage decrying this Face of Death as a sham, a fake, a pretender- but, from Dream’s own experience as the Face of War, that was to be expected of Death. It may not come to grieve, but it certainly claimed no glory. 

Honestly, the chthonics in general were quite a bore. 

There had been one or two he’d been able to stand, in his long reign as War. He’d been around long, in comparison to how fast the faces seemed to cycle nowadays. Sure, the soul stayed the same, passed from face to face- from Huitzilopochtli to Ares, Ares to Alexander, Alexander to Fredrick, and Fredrick to him. Plenty of others stirred between, some were mixed and torn apart, he’s pretty sure _Loki_ had some DNA wrapped up in whatever essence made a god a god inside him- but War had a dignified, powerful, and storied legacy. 

There was never a time man was without war. After all, what is life but a war on death itself?

(A war mortals were damned to lose, but when you’ve seen as much as Dream, as Ares, as the concept of War itself, surprises were few to come by, so at least the journey had some entertainment value.)

Right. War. Death. Waffle House parking lot. All that. 

He knew, vaguely, Death had gained a new face, somewhat recently. His memory of when the pockmarked woman stopped her mad muttering was hazy. Thirty, forty- maybe a hundred years ago? Was she before or after tuberculosis? Was she before or after the bomb? He’s pretty sure she was after, ugh, what year was it-

Anyway, he hadn’t seen her for a while. 

That wasn’t necessarily proof Death found its new host. It could just mean there was, in fact, some horrible plague going around that put Dream’s ‘playground trist’ as the Death before her called it, on the backburner. Unlike the surface gods, Death liked to stay underground, mingle with the Afterlife- the current face being a blonde man with angel wings and a soft smile that made heaven being a gated community in hell a little less jarring for the mortals he sends there, few though find themselves on the inside- and the others who called the House of Hades home. 

(‘House’, ha, cthonics couldn’t even have their realm to themselves, ruled over by George of the Home above) 

_Waffle House battle. Focus._

Anyway-so, Dream would’ve assumed sweet little Death to simply be avoiding him- they hadn’t left off on the best of terms last time they met- if earlier that decade Destruction itself hadn’t called him up complaining. 

_”Death’s frickin worst, man.” ‘Sapnap’, the current face of Destruction, whined. “It literally killed my fire. How do you kill fire! It’s fire!”_

_”Dude, It’s Death, chuck an apple at ‘er and she’ll run off. One a day and all that.”_

_”Nah, man, there’s a new one and it seems pretty pissed off.”_

_“It’s Death! You’re Destruction; you’re immortal, what’s Death gonna do to you?”_

_“Apparently sword-fight a fire, dude.”_

The polite thing to do would have been to send a note to Philza, current face of the Afterlife, to call Death for a visit. Faces were often skittish of the job when they first arrive, especially Death, who rarely got the same grace period others were allowed. Sleep may be delayed, War postponed, and Fires untendered, but Death may never rest.

A helping hand may have been appreciated, to show the ropes. Probably would have been strategic too, get this Death on his side early, and maybe he wouldn’t need to wait three decades between spats anymore to give the poor thing a chance to catch up. Not to mention, come on, having Death follow you around like a lost puppy would be a pretty great flex on whatever mortal dared to challenge him. 

But, alas, the underworld was far and uncomfortable, Death was late as always, and Dream couldn’t be bothered to wait. 

Which was why, finally, War first met Death in a Waffle House Parking lot. 

The skirmish was small, considering his usual fare. Two ‘gangs’ (a dozen local nineteen-year-olds, high on their own supply, fighting over territory) going at it with switchblades, so mundane in the panhandle area that families didn’t even bother pulling the shades down while dining on their overcooked sausages and undercooked pancakes. But, in all honesty, these little spats were some of Dream’s favorites. Sure, giant, legendary, empiric clashes of titans were entertaining. Ones big enough and wild enough would even let him slip into a more human skin; fight amongst the men in the front lines; shifting sides the moment one looked like it’d end his fun a little too soon. Switching uniforms as easy as expressions, his personal favorite battle of his he’d managed to drag on for days. Cannon fire assaulted his head for weeks after, steady thump repeating like a song stuck on loop. Death, the woman before the man before the woman with the Pockmarked skin, had taken a single look at his mad expression in the carnage, and poofed into the oblivion below. She’d apparently decided even the children’s ward would be less traumatizing than Dream’s bloodsoaked smile.

She refused to come to clean up unless he covered it, after. So he crafted a mask of bone to mock her. The thought of it sent such an egotistical rush he kept the thing as a token of his favorite melody. 

Still. These smaller battles, they were so _intimate_ , so senseless, but at the same time, so much more _personal_ , that it couldn’t help but make him smile behind the bone. Proof that humans were never too civilized to leave him behind.

Sitting on the cargo-bed edge of one of the dozen pickup trucks scattered in the parking lot, he watched the mortals clash below, clumsy and feral; sipping a too-thick milkshake he’d swiped from the countertop inside. Benefits of not being visible unless desired, all food was free. 

It seemed a pretty even match. One local kid with brown hair and a broken nose, bandaged with ducktape in true Florida fashion, cracked another kid’s skull against the pavement, then curb-stomped it hard enough to snap. Another, with twitchy, needly fingers and two broken teeth, blood soaking the white lettering on the ripped up Korn shirt, now just reading _Kor,_ gut a shorter boy with the box cutter, the kid trying to catch his organs in his hands like a frayed stuffed animal. Two down, ten left. 

Delighted by the carnage, he hadn’t noticed a new guest mirroring his position, spindly limbs hidden under a red cloak that covered their face and body. Only once another kid went down- a braided blonde with a Taco Bell tattoo on his right bicep and a hat reading _Papa Please_ \- and the out-of-shape ‘soldiers’ took a moment to pant, still too high to take in the consequences of gutting three of their friends in broad daylight, did Dream’s eyes fall on the red silhouette. 

The mystique was tainted, though, by the burnt-up hashbrown it was gnawing on. 

“Hey,” Dream, ever polite, shouted clear across the parking lot, knowing the mortals couldn’t hear him unless he wished, “You’re the new death, right? Nice outfit. Pocky leave it for you?”

The figure didn’t respond, but, shifted to tilt Its head. 

“Right, Pocky- she was Death before ya’. You are Death, right? Otherwise, Pocky’s probably not gonna be too happy about you taking her scythe. She’s pretty close with that thing.”

Said scythe was currently tossed haphazardly in the back of the truck Death lounged in. 

When Death didn’t respond, only shrugged, Dream internally groaned. Great. This was gonna be another ‘oh so dark and mysterious’ death, wasn’t it? The kind that refused to talk until inevitably time and practicality won out over aesthetics. Look, he’s not going to be a hypocrite- he wore a Greek Toga for the first ten years of his reign as Face. But with time comes experience, and experience comes apathy, and apathy let him have his oversized hoodie, loose jeans, and dirty sneakers he now sported. Very godly, if he said so himself. 

He gave Death a few more moments of grace, but, when it stayed still as the grave, Dream shrugged, hopping off the pickup-bed and stretching, arms crackling like rice crispies. “Not much a’ talker, are ya’?”

No response. 

“I take it back, riveting conversationalist.” Rolling his eyes, he unclipped the ax at his side, small as a switchblade, it expanded in his hand to a double-sided beast, glossy black under the shimmering violet. “You really came out here for two guys? Sure there’s gotta be some gender reveal parties going wrong to monitor.”

Still, nothing. 

“Anyway-” he continued, twirling the blade between his fingers, despite the heft. It was an old gift courtesy of Thor, one of his old Faces. Mjolnir shifted forms on its Face’s command, and Dream always felt more at home with blades than blunt-force weapons like hammers. Axe was a fair compromise. “Since you’re here, you may as well get a show. I know I’m bored.” 

That, seemed to get Death’s attention. 

Dream beamed behind the bone, resting the curve of the ax on his shoulder. “I dunno what that little book of yours says, but, I think a little extra carnage-” with one, sweeping motion, he lodged the head clean through Tape-Nosed’s chest- “would liven things up around here.”

The next ten seconds flashed like strobe lights in his eyes. Tape-nose collapsing, clutching his chest. Korn launching at Papa Please like a man possessed. And, much less expected, Mjolnir knocked clean ‘cross the lot, and a scythe at his throat replacing it. 

_My, my, sweet Death’s got a temper this time,_ War’s mind supplied. “Can I help ya’, darlin’?”

Death, then, spoke, in a tone so dark Dream finally understood how Death was born from Night Herself. The hood slid back, just enough, for the light to shine through, to the boar skull below, and the hell-red eyes burning behind it. 

_"I do not appreciate my kills stolen.”_


	2. Destruction and Domesticity

On a conscious level, Dream knew beauty and danger go hand in hand like Sapnap and Pet-Sitting. Sure, they could be fine apart; but combined the results were likely to plunge entire civilizations into ruin. And he should know better than most. There was a reason Helen of Troy found her soul amongst the highest ranks inside him, sipping wine in whatever limbo he could expect to join her in when his time as Face drew to a close. There was a reason Zeus feared Eros above all, why Apollo fell to tragedy for his insurrection against attraction, and “'twas beauty killed the beast” was still being misquoted a century after its inception. 

On a purely intellectual level, Dream knew the soft pink curls and delicate curve of throat below the ivory boar mask spoke nothing of the danger he was in. The arch of the blade at his neck was just as concerning in the hands of Belle as the Beast she tamed; maybe even more, since juries always fall for a pretty face. 

Dream, however, seeing hell dance and blood rain in ruby eyes, lost all frontal lobe function, and only monkey brain remained, chirping helpfully on loop: _he-he pretty~_

He blinked, frozen in motion, lips parted and eyes wide behind the bone. It was stupid; this was a terrible first impression; he’s War goddamnit, getting pinned like this was inexcusable; who let this Pink Twink in a pig skull become Death anyway; Thor was gonna give him a mental bitchslap if Mjolnir got scratched; he should probably take that thing in for a refinishing actually -

“... _cringe_.”

"Wha-" Dream managed to choke before his world flashed black and steel.

He woke, surprisingly, to a bed only a little on fire.

* * *

Dream’s roommates were Destruction and Domesticity. To phrase it differently; the gods of spray painting dicks on public transit, and pissily scrubbing them off again. To say it was not the most stable relationship would be an understatement. 

This was, of course, without factoring that the arbitrating force in this endless conflict was _War_. 

So yeah...Dream frickin’ loved his roommates.

He couldn’t even imagine life without them anymore. Their domestic warfare was his morning coffee; thick tension spread with a butterknife on a lovely dish of Peanut Butter and Jealousy. This balm to his peace-weary soul more than justified the occasional arson. 

It was rare that Dream woke up dead, anyway. The last time he ‘died’ was his quinquennial Manhunt; a game he played with Sapnap, George, ‘Bad Boy Halo’ (the current Face of Serenity, who was surprisingly successful in making the world’s most try-hard nickname stick) and ‘Antfrost’, who he's pretty sure was just somebody’s cat.

It started as an innocent debate, that no army could beat War itself. Sapnap, being Sapnap, then demanded Dream put money where his mouth was. If Dream, alone, could invade and slay Cthulhu- who was peacefully enjoying his retirement from his role as Harbinger- without being killed by the four of them, he’d give Dream a free disaster of his choosing. Or, if Dream won, they’d vote on a nation to plunge into civil war. Pretty even trade, in his opinion. 

One year- and a grumpy Cthulhu threatening to tear through the human dimension itself if they tried that stunt again- later, and the Island of Something- Meditarianian- Probably Earth was no more.

They kept up the tradition every five years or so. Dream had a pretty good win/loss ratio all things considered. Got out a couple times by Sapnap; once by Bad getting a lucky hit; two or three times he got so bored he flung himself off a cliff- that’s his story and he’s sticking to it, ignore the empty water bucket- and once when he learned _apparently_ cats are a pretty good shot. He’s still picking glass from his hair from that potion bottle. 

Where was he again?

Right. Waking up on fire. That was a thing he should probably take care of. 

It took a moment to register the heat trickling on his skin. Blurry eyes saw red lick at the corner of his vision, but that could’ve just as easily been blood. But eventually, the too-familiar smell of smoke came along, and Dream was just left staring up at the popcorn ceiling with an overwhelming sense of _honestly, why not at this point_?

It took all he had not to resign himself to the slow roasting. There wasn't in any danger in it anyway. But, if George walked in and saw it, he'd probably kick up a whole new fuss about Dream's health that he really didn't have the energy or fucks left for. 

He did give himself a few minutes before the smoke finally got annoying enough to merit action. With a long, heavy grunt, he pushed himself off the bed, landing facefirst on the cold concrete, reeking of smoke and regret. With a drawn, suspended groan, he kept his eyes closed as the cold sept through the green fabric of his hoodie. Fire wouldn’t hurt him, not unless he or Sapnap wanted it to, but the cool concrete was still nice.

The concrete also helped him ignore the man above him; match still in hand, swaying utterly at ease. “Why hello there, Dream. What are you doing back so soon?”

Asshole. “Saving my bed.”

The brat had the nerve to give a shit-eating grin. “Eh, figured it’d help get you up and ready for the I Told You So’s.” With a single snap, the flames evaporated, though his bed was still singed to soot. He’d have to deal with that at some point if he didn’t want the next slip-up in manhunt to end with getting mistaken for an Enderman. “So~ Did you happen to run into anyone?”

“...”

“Ya’ know, pink-haired, tall n’ skinny, with a giant scythe?” He was grinning like the Cheshire cat, Dream didn’t even have to look to know that. “Though it _couldn’t_ be them, right? After all, you could just ' _throw ‘n apple at ‘er and she’ll go away,'_ right?”

“...” 

“So who was it then~” Sapnap sang, leaning on the chute of his flamethrower like a cane, tanks a curled set of devil wings heavy on his shoulders. 

It still pissed him off that Sapnap’s ‘Signature’- what gods took to calling their bonded items so no matter where they went they could summon it- weapon was a goddamn _flamethrower_ . When Dream settled on Mjölnir being an ax for his reign as Face, he didn’t know that he could’ve waited a couple years and gotten a fire-shooting tube of _death_. But nope. Sapnap just got lucky enough to ascend after gasoline, and reaped the rewards of modernity. 

Rolling to lay face down on the concrete, he only let out a small whine when Sapnap nudged his side with his chunky used-to-be-white sneakers. “Come on, just admit it. I was right. You got your ass handed to you by Death.”

“...It snuck up on me.”

“Told you so.” He flipped the gun back up, like it was some sort of pencil trick, and slid it back into the holder. “What was it you said again? About if you ever died to death?”

“Oh come on, this does _not_ count-”

“C’mon, _say it.”_

Dream’s eye twitched. Maybe he’d be getting the itch for violence scratched sooner than he thought. “What? Whoop de do, Death got a lucky shot. I’ll take It in the arena, see how well that goes for It.”

Clicking his tongue, Sapnap stepped closer, leaning an arm against his shoulder. “You said Death could beat you when _pigs fly_.”

“And?"

“...dude? Did you see the mask?”

“Half the people we know’ve got weird animal stuff, dude. I think we just know a lot of…” What was that word the ferryman kid told him? “Furries.”

Sapnap’s wheeze almost rivaled his own, curling up and clutching his stomach, cackling. Dream waited, face flat behind the bone, as Destruction singed his own clothes as sparks flew from his palms. Sapnap whined when he realized what he’d done- he was notoriously protective of his clothes, a bit funny considering his title- and Dream was mature enough to avoid a ‘you deserved it’. But not mature to stop himself from returning with his own ‘tea kettle’ spouting steam. 

The annoyance Dream had built up quickly floated out with the air squeaking through his lungs. He could never stay that mad at Sapnap; the guy made too much of a habit of humiliating himself. Not to mention, if things ever got _too_ far, and Sapnap forgot who was the one really calling the shots…

After all, what was destruction but a war on the world around you?

George found them ten minutes later or so, huddled like giggling children, skin streaked with ash, and the stench of burning plastic- he really should invest in more quality sheets, little time he spends respawning in it aside- and went on his usual tirade against Sapnap, who laughed straight through it as expected. “Really? Really? This is funny? Me having to repaint the walls _again_ is funny?”

“You could just leave them black,” Dream managed to choke out through the giggling fit.

George looked like someone had shoved his face in Antfrost’s litterbox. “We’re not living in a black house so Sapnap can burn things with impunity.”

“ _Wouldn’ want t’at, aye governa_ ’?” Sapnap mocked back, mimicking George’s accent, who narrowed his eyes in return. 

George proceeded to smack Destruction over the head with a broom. It snapped in half. Sapnap simply gave a thumbs up at the attempt. 

The screaming contest launched into action a split second after. George waving his hands, wind picking up under his feet. Sapnap, the symbol on his shirt beginning to flare off sparks and flickers of ash, snorted and shot back this or that petty response. Dream, watching the fireworks- really did look like really emo fireworks, the wind swirling the ash in the air, dark against the white ceiling- felt the last of his wounds from his fight with Death begin to heal. A good old dash of conflict always helped his godly immune system kick into gear. 

Speaking of Death though…

At some point, he was going to have to face down the fact that, surprise attack or not, Death killed him. The thin line across his throat being slowly sewn together from the inside was proof enough of that. One moment he was fine, the next, ‘off with the head’. Licking his lips, his mind flashed back to the image of dripping blood in the eyes of the boar-skilled figure. Distantly, he wondered what It would’ve looked like his own blood across Its skin; the callous grin or fixed flat line of lips after Dream’s head rolled to a stop across the lot. 

It wasn’t an unpleasant image. 

Now that he thought about it, even if it was unacceptable that Death of all people could dare to challenge him, challenges were so rare to come by nowadays he may as well take it. 

He would find himself at Death's door. Pun absolutely intended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm sorry it took so long. As dumb as it seems, to write this chapter I had to do a ton of behind the scenes worldbuildy stuff, like figure out Badboy Skeppy Ranboo Antfrost and a couple other's godhoods are, plot out some time periods, how I want the bonded stuff to work, etc. Once again, MAJOR shoutout to the Dreamnoblade Discord for helping me with this, it couldn't be here without them.
> 
> I hope I can get the next chapter out a bit sooner. It's either going to be Techno and Wilbur, Qauckity's backstory, or Dream hunting down his Cinderella with a Silver Scythe. Anyway, have a happy holidays!!


	3. Falling Asleep

_Hell was rather pleasant in the mornings,_ Techno said to himself; and the millions of dead people spamming ‘E’ in his skull. 

While the souls of the damned had no way of tracking day and night- the sun never rose in the underworld- their tormentors bunked with Sleep itself, so rest was taken as gospel in the House of Hades.

Honestly, if Techno had circled through life the average way- dying and being ferried through the underworld by a British brat with an adrenaline addiction- he would’ve preferred the fields of Asphodel (normal people hell), or even Tartarus (pissed-off-Philza level hell) to the constant blinding light of Elysium. Or, sorry, _Heaven,_ as he has to refer to it in a vain attempt to calm the masses screaming _‘Blasphemous’_ in his head from losing their absolute shit. 

Asphodel, on the other hand, was pretty pleasant in comparison. Sure, there was less angelic singing and violent bloodsport; but the weather was calm, souls peaceful, and it was always beautifully, blissfully quiet.

His little oasis at the mouth of the river Lethe, under the purple glow of a weeping-obsidian willow, was the one real refuge he’d found outside of his room in the House of Hades. Even ‘Chat’- what he’d taken to calling the endless stream of abuse from the dead souls constantly screaming in his skull- seemed to calm in the presence of the Lethe’s mist. It wasn’t enough to wipe his own memories- he’d have to drown himself in the waters for hours to forget breakfast, and he had no desire to test what drinking the stuff would do- but it did calm the souls to a dim hum. It was the one place he felt real rest. 

The only problem with Asphodel, and the lovely river Lethe that ran straight through it, was the patron deity. 

“Eyy, Techno! I haven’t seen ya’ man- what’re you doing this side of the Styx?”

Techno loved his…brother? Twin? Dual face? Housemate? The whole thing still confused him. They weren’t physically related, he knew that. From gossip among the shades, Wilbur most likely ascended before Techno’s own parents were even born. Though, even Wilb- _Sleep,_ even _Sleep-_ didn’t know for certain. Happens when you spend your days skinny dipping in the River Lethe. 

With a long, drawn-out groan, he raised himself to his elbows, rubbing his eyes to try and beat back the headache. His mask laid strewn in the grey-green fields, ribbon curled under the snout. “Dying slowly.”

“Better than dying quick!” 

He doubted that. 

Wilbur- who thankfully decided not to flash the entire underworld and put on some pale yellow swim trunks- slid himself out of the pale river, flopping onto the ground like a beached salmon. Techno scooted back so the milky-white droplets didn’t reach his cloak. Where the water touched the muted green grass turned even greyer than before; and he rather liked this cloak, thanks.

“Really though,” Wilbur said, plucking one of the vibrant blue poppies scattered in the field, center glowing soft as candlelight. The grass ran seemingly endless, shades drifting listlessly through. He reached over, Techno holding his breath to avoid twitching away, and slid the stem behind his ear. “You doin’ alright man?”

He shrugged, turning to stare into the pale creek bubbling beside him. Maybe one day he would take Wilbur up on his offer for a quick dive. See what it’d be like to lose himself for a couple hours. “I’m alive, I guess... Well. Not alive. I’m Death, I guess?” An ache ran through his temple trying to work out the twisting logic to justify his being here. “No one’s tried to shove me in a box, anyway. Been pretty boring.”

“Boring, huh?” Uh oh. He didn’t like the lilt in Wilbur’s voice. “Hey, Techie- don’t give me that look- I got an idea.” He plucked another poppy. “Can I braid your hair?”

“...uh,” he stared, voice trailing far longer than it needed. He usually kept it up in a sort of messy bun, not having the patience to braid the thing after it grew past his shoulder blades, but shrugged and sat up all the way. “I guess?”

“Sweet. It’ll look good, promise.” With that, Wilbur slid behind him, as Techno leaned back on his elbows, and felt his hair get split in three. “So, you say nothing happened while you were up collecting?”

“...yeah?” This felt like a trap. Very much like a trap. “Nothin’ tried to kill me or anything.”

“I see.” Techno could hear the smile in Wilbur’s voice, as he threaded the first flower in the top-notch of the braid. He was going to look like a rejected extra from a Netflix adaptation of My Little Pony, wasn’t he? At least, more than usual. 

(If he’d known his hair color that day would be stuck with him the rest of eternity, he might’ve strayed away from the Halloween aisle. Alas, so is life….death? Whatever.)

A sharp tug to tighten the knot later, Wilbur continued. “Did you meet anyone?”

“I met two thousand three hundred and twenty-seven souls, Wilbur, and they’re all currently screaming ‘Technomaiden’ in my head thanks to this.”

Wilbur laughed. “I can’t blame them, you are a _very_ pretty piggy, Techie.”

“...” Was there even a proper response to that?

“ _So,_ pretty in fact, that maybe you caught the eye of a handsome boar somewhere along the line?”

Techno snorted so hard it almost hurt. “Never say those words to me again.”

He could physically feel Wilbur’s shit-eating grin. “So you’re not denying it?”

“Yeah, sure Wilbur. Somewhere along the line of me ripping out people’s hearts and biting them, someone saw a hunched over scarecrow and thought, ‘ _you know what that is? Prime sex appeal’._ ”

“You do look dashing in red.” Another twist, place, pull, in his hair. “You should use the blue coat today though; it’ll match the flowers.”

“Thought you were god of sleep, not Fashion.”

Wilbur’s hands paused. “I’m not Sleep, I’m-”

“ _The Descent_ , right, sorry.” Oh he screwed up. Big time.

“Did I tell you-”

Here it comes. 

“Sleep is so stupid. I mean, yeah, I make people fall asleep; but I’ve got so much more! I’ve got love, and wine and music and madness and-”

“I think people just needed something shorter, Wilbur.”

“The Descent just makes so much more sense! It just sounds better. You _fall_ asleep, you _fall_ in love, you _fall_ into a trance-”

“Yep,” he hummed, eyes glazed over, wondering if trying one of the glowing blue berries stippling the branches above would be too terrible an idea. “Definitely.”

“I could accept God of the Fall, but then things would get confusing with the season, and the Descent just sounds so much better on an album cover-”

“Uh-huh.” The shades ate them all the time. And Wilbur. What’s the worst they could do? Wipe his memories? Actually, yeah, that was very likely what they did.

“I did consider making an album called the Fall, but that probably would be copyright infringement on Sadie-” Who the heck was Sadie?- “and that’s beside the point.” The braiding had fallen back into its rhythm from before, Techno’s eyes falling shut at the steady tug and release. Much as he made fun of Wilbur, his presence was calming. Maybe it was his past souls buzzing under the surface of his consciousness, happy to be in the presence of their ‘twin’. 

Or maybe it was just nice having someone touch him who wasn’t gonna gut him. Who knows.

Still, he fell into the buzz of Wilbur’s voice- eyes heavy; breathing slow. Maybe it wasn’t the twin thing after all? Maybe Wilbur just had some Sandman in him; his very presence able to put people’s minds to rest? Or, maybe, Techno was just really damn tired? Either way, he found himself drifting off while Wilbur ranted; from Anteaters to Sand to his love of Blue. Whether the color or the flowers currently twisted in his hair, he’d never know.

Just as his limbs loosened, mind tipping to take the final plunge into sweet, sweet, slumber, the screaming began.

_Technolate! Technolate!_

_technolaaaatteeee eee_

_Tehcnolaet~_

_OW FUCK????? THAT HAD TO HURT???_

_hehehe hot green man make brain go brrrrr_

_Techno late!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_lowkey ship tho..._

_TECHNOLATEeee_

_hi_

_Technogay lol_

_POG_

_eeeeeeeeee_

_Warnotech? Fightblade?? Mask x Mask?? Maskies?? Ya’ll help me this name’s hard_

_POG_

_eeeeeeeeeeee_

_Ee!!_

_L_

_po@g_

_lllll_

_ee_

_poG_

_/mutecha_

_dsghjjdfksd;fghgrht_

_BLOD BLOOD BOOD_

_Guys, come on, that jokes so old by now._

_Eeeeeeeeeeee_

_/rianbowchat_

_lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll;lllllllllll_

_*/rainbowchat_

_eeeeee_

_gIve Me bACk mY hÅmSTer_

_Is someone actually going to tell him that he’s needed because there’s a pile of corpses the size of Louisiana dumped in front of Denny’s RN? No? Just me?_

_BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_

_Im hungwy UwU_

_BLOOD BLOJFD_

_pleade hjlp ibe been@betra readijgn this fic fir three hours_

_lol mood tho tbh_

_Guys, please this is so stupid_

_šäłåmī_

_chEEEEEEEEEEEEseee frieeeeeees_

_teCHNIolate_

_According to all known laws of aviation,there is no way a bee should be able to fly._

_GUYS GUYS guys we need a ship name_

_TECHNO LATE TECHNO LATE_

_^^^^^^^^^^_

_cheEEEEEsseee_

_plesf i am stuifk here writigjmn_

_wait you actually like cheese lmao scrub_

_Dudes actually taking a nap while there’s a war lmao loserrrrrr couldnt be me_

_L_

_poggers_

_LLLLLLLL_

_TECHNOGAY TECHNOGAY TECHNOGAY FOR WAR TECHNOGAYYYYYYYY_

_Lllllllll_

_eeeeE_

_/mutechatfortheloveofgod_

_lllll_

_DEATH!!#! DEATH! !DEATH!1!!!! DEATH!!!!!1!_

Right. Silly him, thinking he was allowed to feel good. He forgot that emotions other than exhaustion and mild annoyance were banned even before he got turned into the bippidy-boppidy-boogeyman.

After an agonizing minute, when willpower won over common sense, Techno managed to pry open his eyes; bloodshot and dry despite the Lethe’s cool mist. Wilbur was still rambling above him, going on and on and _on_ about a Sand Mafia; hands raking through the delicate braidwork he’d meticulously crafted literal minutes prior. It was so comfortable, so soft; and he hadn’t gotten a single uninterrupted period of sleep since he Ascended to the Face of Death. When was that, anyway? Weeks ago? Months? Years? Hours? _Days_? Did time even matter now that he was technically immortal?

He blew one of the newly freed curls framing his face from his eyes as he dragged himself to his feet. 

“...late?” Wilbur tucked his legs, crisscrossed and curled up in a yellow hoodie that definitely wasn’t there before.

“Yeah.” He gave a curt nod. “Always am.”

“Better than early; for them.” A few moments passed, no sound but the Lethe's churning tides, and something seemed to shift in Wilbur’s eyes, paler than before. Something faded, further away. But Techno wasn’t exactly known for his social graces, so he wasn’t going to read too far into it. “Be safe, alright? War’s sweetn’ all, but, still- this- this stuff can end badly.”

“...Wilbur, what the actual hell are you talking about?”

“Just trust me.” Pulling himself to his feet, plucked poppy in hand, Wilbur stood tall; taller than him; and slid the severed stem behind the ear it’d fallen from. “Alright? Keep your head.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure, whatever.” He shifted his weight. “If you say so.”

“Be home soon, Tech.” Before he could blink, arms were wrapped tight around him, squeezing him until the breath he didn’t know he was holding was forced from his lungs. “Promise?”

A soft buzz in his chest echoed a response. “Yeah, promise.”

With that, he was let go, sending an awkward wave goodbye as his scythe appeared in hand; blinking out of existence in a puff of smoking steam.

It wasn’t until sunlight hit his skin, that he realized the color of his cloak. Asphodel Blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm shocked I managed to get this out in a somewhat timely fashion. It would've been out faster, but, ah, anxiety- meltdowns over why I'm so bad at writing emotionally resonant content, and panics over the use 'ing' love to slow the process. 
> 
> Anyway, once again massive shoutout to the Discord, in particular Autum (https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumntoash/pseuds/autumntoash) for beta reading it! A lot of the Chat Section were suggestions from the Discord, and a few were specific shoutouts (Kan, hopefully you can find yourself in there) so if you want to hop in and hear my 4AM meltdowns in person, feel free!  
> https://discord.gg/2gn4smUw
> 
> If you guys also want some fun lore/aesthetics, the trees are a mashup of Crying Obsidian from the Minecraft games, and this very specific image I found on Google  
> https://img.scoop.it/Q2ZqqDyZ_KKdGINx-gpIVDl72eJkfbmt4t8yenImKBVvK0kTmF0xjctABnaLJIm9. 
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter might take a bit longer, since I have to do some preliminary worldbuilding before it can come out, unless I do a side tangent on someone's backstory instead. Hopefully you guys like this one. It's a bit different than my usual style, so I really hope it worked out!!


	4. Hypocrisy

_"_ _Best remember_ _where your power comes from, boy- because it's not a pretty crown.” The blade licked his throat “It comes from ax and iron. "_

* * *

“Well, well, if it ain't Porky Pie! Took you long...e...nough.”

Blue. Pink. Blue. Flower. Boy. Pretty boy. Pretty flower. Pretty flower boy. Pretty flower boy make bee brain go _brrr_.

“...really?” Sweet Death leaned against Its scythe, arm resting on the curve of the blade that wouldn’t dare scratch such a lovely owner. “Was this necessary?” 

Mjolnir split a sobbing man’s skull clean in down the center as it fell from his grip. “H-Hi.”

“Hello.” Death- white fringe of Its blue cloak stained wine-red from the puddle It appeared in- had a smirk just barely visible under the crest of the boar-skull mask. Entirely too ethereal for a blood-drenched Denny's parking lot, but what can Dream say; he's a sucker for nostalgia. “May I ask, again- was this necessary?”

“...” Dream swore his skin was buzzing. How dare It have god damn flowers in Its hair, it’s not fair, It was already too pretty- “Well, you didn’t answer my letters, so I figured I’d have to get your attention somehow.”

“Letter?” Death snorted, straightening Its back. While most of the gods were tall- and he was pretty sure Death actually was an inch or so shorter- the long cut of the cloak stretched the line of Its body for miles. “You actually sent a letter?”

“Yeah?”

“And thought Tommy was _not_ going to lose it?”

...alright. Fair. Very fair. 

“You’re a tough god to contact, Dove; what can I say? Worked with what I had. And when that didn’t go through...” Planting his foot on the corpse's collarbone, he managed to wrench Mjolnir free from where it’d lodged with a liquid _squelch_. “I sent a couple messengers." Flicking the blood off the blade with a twist of the wrist, he sent back a beaming smile behind the bone. Not that it mattered; but, it's the thought that counts after all. "They come quick?”

“Yeah. They did. And coined the term ‘Technolate’, which I will never forgive you for.”

“Mortals are clever like that.” This was going well. Almost too well. Keeping Death around for any period of time was already a victory, and dragging the ones before this boar-skulled eye candy onto the battlefield was like pulling Sebek’s teeth. But getting them talking, casual and candid? Unheard of. 

He might be addicted to the power of it all. 

Death- gripping the scythe more like a baseball bat than an actual weapon- proceeded to swing the thing fast enough the _‘pop’_ of severed souls physically knocked Dream back against the corpse-pile with a _squeech_. 

It was like a particularly dedicated mime routine, watching Death do Its dark business; severing the strings of fate. He couldn’t see them- he’s pretty sure none but the Fates (or Norns or Prophets or whatever they went by these days) and Death itself could- but, he was able to watch the struggle. The tightness grit of Death's jaw, heft of the curved blade as it tugged and gripped and _ripped_ through a particularly thickly wound rope. Probably one of his kills, honestly. Death's little black book must’ve marked the man for a much longer life than Dream's welcome gift had allowed. 

Thankfully, his trusty mask hid his hungry grin, even as he was knocked on flat on his blood-soaked ass. “So, sweet thing, darlin’, I was thinkin-”

“No.” Death blanched. “Do not call me that.”

Dream quirked his head. Hm. “Darlin’ or Sweet?”

“Thing.” Death twirled the stem of the scythe-like a cheerleader’s baton; iron retracting to a sharp point, shortening and thinning into a ballpoint pen, clicking into place. “I’m tired of this god-thing meaning I’m not a person.”

“...Alright. As you wish.” Planting the blunt of Mjolnir on the ground, he tugged himself up, not bothering to poof away the blood streaking his mask or hands from the fall. “Form of politeness up here. Some of the old Deaths would get all pissy about being called mortal pronouns. Said it’d ‘mess with their psyche’ and ‘make them think of mortals as people,’ and blah blah blah.” Deciding to mirror Sweet Death’s first position, he leaned his arm against the roof of Mijonir’s blade, the edge only denting the skin. A bonded weapon could never hurt its master.

Unless you’re Sapnap. Then it'll burn the shit out of you and it’s hilarious.

“So, then, Sweets," he continued, "what’d you like me to call you?”

The lovely figure paused for a moment, giving Dream ample time to appreciate the gentle slope of his shoulders under the artic blues All dressed up for him, how cute. "Him. And drop the sweet stuff, too. Darlin’- all of it, it’s patronizing. It’s just Death.”

“Okay then, _Death_ ,” he cooed the word like the mercy it was, “I gotta ask; you seem pretty competent for the scythe here. What got you sent up with the rest of us?” He blinked, head lolling to the side, eyes drifting in a smooth arc, landing on the puddle seeping into the concrete. “Or, well, down.”

A crow cawed, battling a determined frog for an eye freed from its socket “...you implying something?” 

“I mean, I’m not, _not_ implying something.” He whistled his own tune in return. A short, sharp little thing. “Should I be?”

“I think,” Death stepped forward, sticky red drip, drip, dripping from the scruffed-up souls of the combat boots, raining ripples into the crimson soup, “that it’s not any of your business."

"Mhm."

Death hovered over him, and Dream could see the individual dips of each collarbone from the angle. He liked it. "I don’t know who you are-”

“Wait,” words left Dream’s head without thought. “What?”

The growl that rumbled through Death’s throat was low and downright feral and should not have been hot as it was. “I said it’s none of your business.”

“Not that part- you don’t know who I am?”

The tension, before tight, turned to a more insidious toxin “...I mean, I know you’re not…” He paged through the infamous little black book, Dream’s eye twitching from the slow crinkle of papyrus. “Dakota Sadad. Dies at age Forty-Six to an Elephant Stampede.” The book snapped shut with a puff of dust. “Do you know how much I was looking forward to that? I get maybe six of those a year- you- you couldn’t have taken another car crash, maybe a heart attack if you wanted to get creative. No, you just _had_ to pick one of the elephant kills.”

Okay, this was not fair. The first Death that seemed even the slightest bit interesting, a little worth talking to, and they-they- they didn’t even know who War _was_ ?! Seriously?! One before the one before him dropped to Its knees and _begged_. This one though; no. Somehow the _only_ one he’d cared about impressing hadn’t gotten the underworld crash course of respect on the surface. 

He hoped he wouldn’t have to teach that respect. He’d rather not cut that pretty hair. 

“Well,” he hummed, lounging back onto the pile of corpses like the fleshy throne it was; tinge of iron sharp in the air. “Most Deaths like to leave me some sacrifices when they first ascend. I’m technically your...what’s the word? Boss? Trainer? Superior?”

“Annoyance.”

“No, I don’t think it’s that.” This little bird had plenty of teeth, and if it wasn’t so novel, he’d pluck them right out. “Well, generally you’re considered an _acolyte_ of mine.”

“...heh?” 

Alright, confusion. Better than outright defiance. “You’re my acolyte, Dove. You know. Worshipper? Aspect? Underling? Assistant? You’re a high ranking one, sure, but- Death is still just a part of War.”

A long, dense silence filled the air. At least of words. The sound of a lawnmower sucking up a crinkled can of Bud Lite Premium did dampen the ambiance a bit.“...Alright. Sure. Got it. Crystal." Death snapped his fingers and the book poofed into air with a puff of red. "So, if you’re done being wrong, I’ve got to go do actual work now.”

Oh come on- “Excuse me, Dove, I don’t remember giving you ord-”

“Don’t, call me Dove.” Foot sliding through the slick with a squelch, Death’s shoulders rounded into an almost boxer’s stance. Impressive. If not against him. "It’s Death.”

“You forget yourself, _little bird_ ,” Dream said, in the exact same tone as before. He refused to let Death of all creatures; sweet, peaceful death; the release of suffering; arguably more ‘kind’ to his slaughtered souls than gods-damned Diplomacy herself; no matter how pretty or interesting this one was, challenge _him_. “I get you’re new here, but there’s still an order to things.”

“From where I stand, the order historically has been you steal my kill and I cut your head off for it. You want a repeat?”

The _gall_! It was wrong, it was disrespectful, blasphemous, rude, ~~kinda hot~~ , and just damn unacceptable. Normally he’d be happy to let Death keep to themselves, but if this one felt like playing a game- so be it. 

Mjolnir grew heavy in his hand as he stood. “You think you could if you wanted?”

Death had the nerve to smile. “I mean. It wasn’t exactly hard the first time.”

Insolence. When was the last time Dream had faced it? Real insolence? Not the jokey, playful scraps Sapnap and him bantered in, or the domestic spats George hilariously thought would actually impact how their household was run. Destruction and Domesticity both knew their place was to bolster War’s impact in the end. But this? This? Direct disobedience?

“I let you get a free hit, as a gesture of good faith. But if you’d like a proper spar,” he angled the blunt edge of Mjolnir, letting the light gleam off the purple sheen. “I’d be happy to remind you of your place.”

The beat from before, along with the gods-damned lawnmower, returned; heated and heavy in the Florida steam. Soon the flies would come.

“So….are we done here?” Death drawled. “Chat wants Waffles.”

Alright. He had enough. Pretty Death, Funny Death, Sweet or fucking Feral; fuck this shit, Dream’s done singin’ carols...

(...ADHD what the actual hell-)

Whatever the case- he was **done**. Growl bubbling from the pit of his stomach, he charged down the hill of bodies, ribs snapping beneath his weight as he swung for Death’s fluffy white collar and- 

...all it found was burning mist; Dream face planting into the corpse of one of his bloody valentines. 

The whirl of sirens blaring in the distance as time ticked back to its old tight schedule serenaded his humiliation, as the paramedics finally arrived. They hustled around him, tugging a body here or there, muttering mortal panic over the loss of worthless life. 

And he laid there, simmering. 

Alright then, Death. If he wanted to play War, War would play right back. And War didn't lose these sorts of games. Yes, as the mortals wandered around him, oblivious to the boiling god at their feet, Dream’s decision had been made. Operation _Fuck Death_ was now in order. 

And he was bringing a damn big stick to do it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Sorry again for the long time to update <3 It's been a bit of an intense chapter to write, since it kinda spirals into some consequences later on, so I wanted to make sure I really did it justice!
> 
> Thank you again to DnB discord for their near endless help. I could not do this without them and the support, beta reading, ideas, and encouragement they give. https://discord.gg/uzpw9kEw
> 
> Anyway, it's 7 AM and I haven't slept since, well, 7 AM yestuarday, so I should hit the hay <3 Good night/morning, I hope you all enjoy!


	5. Greek Tragedy (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: this chapter is much darker than the previous ones. I'll provide a short summary in the bottom notes if you feel like you would rather skip it. From now on, each of the chapters with darker themes will include these little before sections trigger warning them. Most backstory focused chapters have pretty dark and disturbing stuff.  
> TW for this Chapter: Vomit, gaslighting, broken glass, bad manipulation, mention of drug use, intense alcohol consumption, emotional abuse, and suicidal thoughts/talking someone into what they think may kill them. 
> 
> Also, endless thanks to https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinegreenapples who edited this chapter and went line by line with me to improve it.

**September 20th, 1983: Central Park, New York. 2:00 AM EST.**

‘Quackity’ Alex Montgomery, toga covered in goat hair and spilled boxed wine, was so fucking drunk there wasn’t a comparison to be made. Comparisons require brain cells, and all those were washed away around the fourteenth shot of nail-polish remover strength vodka. 

His stomach had rebelled against him eight times that night, green with flecks of red and yellow vomit now littering the bushes around their carved out hole in central-park; acid stretch mixing with the wine and smoke. It was a strange, eldritch feeling; being locked-up deep into an unknowable, twisting labyrinth of trees and ponds and rocks that cast shadows tall as mountains. It felt old, _he_ felt old, ancient and weak, like he’d crumble to dust and the saliva building up in the back of his throat would dissolve it into grime and muck. 

He was tempted to lay down. Collapse into a puddle of sickly sweat and blurry laughter. But, then, he’d look up to the sky. The endless void, starless, dark, oil-slick orange from light pollution, and see Skyscrapers towering over it all; jagged teeth spiking around the mouth they sat in, peaking beyond the trees on the horizon. Feel the wet, sticky heat gurgling from the central pyre. 

He swallowed another dried-up chunk of steak. The jerky may be part of the ritual, but gods it was having trouble staying down.

Admittedly, the ritual had been fun at first. If nothing else the anticipation of it all. Aside from the sheer, frat-boy stupidity of it all- breaking into a zoo to steal a black ram; smuggling it into Central Park as the sun faded into the smoggy sea; buying out the entire local liquor shop; sweet-talking some dealers into bulk pricing Coke and LSD; re-reading the endless letters he’d been sent by his soon-to-be-undead boyfriend; seeing the look on the poor pizza guy’s face as he delivered fourteen pizza boxes to what must have looked like a broke-kid bacchanal-

But as the night lingered on, the ceremony drew near; orange firelight flickering against the elks and oaks; halos cast in fleshy reds and bile yellow, pulsing and bleeding black. As time grew closer to the main event, the high turned into lows; pleasant buzz to sloshing sickness, and the prospect of walking into a fire to resurrect a lost god seemed less like an adventure and more like a prank gone horribly wrong. 

But the ground was so comfortable. The soil cool against his cloying sweat; earthy scent drinking up the salt on his skin. He could imagine vines surrounding him; binding his ankles and wrists and throat; and pulling him down, down, into the pit below. Into Elysium then Asphodel then Tartarus below it. Tug, tug, tugging, him down; deeper; deep; where there was nowhere left to dig, and the pressure popped his head off his skinny shoulders, finally severing his migraine at the source. 

He blinked. The dehydration made his eyes itch. 

Lacking the energy to pry his eyes open again after they’d shut, he laid, body sunken into the grass- when did he lay down? Wasn’t he saying he wasn’t going to? Why was he so dirty? Why did the grass seem to grow over his thighs and tangle in his laces?- high pitched scent stinging his nose and triggering his allergies that were too exhausted to go off. 

_"Alex,"_ a voice crooned in his ear, breath ghosting over his neck and pooling air at his collarbone. " _Come on, sweetcheeks, you’re almost done. You want to see me, right?"_

 _“_ Mhmph,” Qauckity slurred. “But I dun’ feel too good.”

 _"I know, baby, I know."_ The voice dripped with honey-whiskey, whisps of cigar smoke dancing in the faint wind. " _It’s almost over, though, alright? You’ll feel so good when we’re done."_

Phantom fingers brushed his throat. But there was no hand to hold it. No hands, no skin; just a dark, soot-stained voice that’d followed him for years now. 

“It’ll hurt,” he choked, he clawed and scratched at his dried-out throat, squeezing like he’s sure _he’d_ do. “It already hurts- fuck, I dun’ want- it’s gonna’ hurt, Schlatt, _please_ ,- it hurts- it hurts- I wanna, go to bed- Schlatt, _please_ \- I- _please_ -”

Sandpaper sobs ground against his bones, dry coughs raking through his lungs and throat. The vines grew tighter, pulling him, down, down, _deeper_ , **_die-_ **

_"….so you want me to go?"_ The voice seemed to fade, bouncing back and forth in his skull. " _You want to be all alone again?"_

A rib snapped, he’s pretty sure, from the pain in his chest. “No, no, wait-”

 _"It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to hurt you, Alex."_ The voice was softer, quieter, further, leaving, leaving, **no please -** " _I know when I’m not wanted anymore. I’m sure your friends will be around to help the hangover. Like, you know...well. I’m sure you’ll find_ **_someone."_ **

There would be no one else, would there? No one in his head. He’d go home and throw up onto his mattress, lying on the ground in his dingy downtown apartment because he couldn't afford the bedframe- he’d go there and sleep in his vomit, and if he died in his slumber no one would find his body until the landlord came for rent; paid one way or another-

 _"Oh, that is true- why not ask him for help, eh, babydoll? I’m sure he’d help you_ **_all_ ** _ya’ want-."_

Breaking the vines, he rolled onto his knees, and lost the little steak he’d been able to stomach. 

_"Poor thing. If only someone cared enough to help you. Other than me, of course. But I’m trapped up here. If I wasn’t, I’d happily hold your hair through your hangover, baby. I’d be there when you woke up every morning. Isn’t that worth a little faith, sugar? Don’t you trust me?”_

The sun would rise soon. Oil-slick orange would turn to dried-blood red as it crested the horizon. The jaws of central park would finally swallow him whole. 

“...okay.”

 _"Oh?"_ The voice sang in his ears. " _Are you sure? One of your friends could drive you home-"_

“I’m sure.” His nails dug into the bark of an elm, splinters embedding deep under the bed, but he was far too dizzy to care. “I’m comin’. ‘m sorry I doubted you.”

_"Of course, baby, it’s alright. You’ll make it up to me when I’m walking, right?"_

“Of course,” he parroted. “Of course I’ll make it up to you when you’re walking.”

_"Good boy."_

One step. Two. Laughter. Purple. Swimming heads. The goat was here somewhere, right, a goat was somehow involved in all this. He couldn’t remember how. Wasn’t he supposed to eat it? Or throw it in the fire? Both? Something was supposed to burn, he remembered. He remembered one of the things to burn was him. 

Seeing triple, he managed to swipe another swig of cognac from a mostly empty bottle beside him. 

Glass shattering with a high pitched rain as he dropped it, not caring about the shards slicing up the soles of his feet- wasn’t he wearing shoes a few minutes ago? Where did they go? Did the vines eat them?- he trudged through the air like sewage, gasping for breath, until he finally crashed face-first into the ram’s thick black fur. 

_"Good boy, good,_ **_good_ ** _boy; you’re doing so well for me sweetheart, you’re almost there,"_ the voice crooned, rumbling, dark. " _Just finish up and I’ll kiss you silly for it."_

Finish. Finish. That’s all he had to do. Holding in another dry heave, he stalked towards the pile of twigs and grass and sharp-smelling gasoline, set beside the central pyre, snatching one of the dozen torches scattered around. He death marched- death stumbled, really- through the vomit and broken glass as the vines tried to tug him back to the underworld below where he belonged. 

The little black lamb blinked up at him. Quackity almost cried all over again. 

“Mary Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow,” he sang, delirious, barely a whisper on the breeze, “With silver bells and cockle shells,” his hand shook. His knees shook. His courage _quaked._ “And pretty maids all in a row."

The others, a blur of white and skin, his sight having long since lost him, gathered around, to watch the main event. 

“Mary Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow.” What’s the worst that could happen, after all? Even if it all went wrong. Even if he failed. “With silver bells and cockle shells,” if he burned alive and got swallowed by the vines, “and pretty maids all in a row.”

He raised the flame, shining in the blackened night. “Pretty maids all in a row.”

The torch dropped into the blazing brush, fire flashing in his eyes as the smoke swallowed him whole.

_“I guess it’s time to go.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schlatt, an 'old god' in Qauckities eyes, gaslights and manipulates Qauckity to walk light himself on fire for a dark ritual, involving a black ram. Schlatt has been in Qauckity's head for years now. Qauckity was revealed to have been extremely lonely, and exploited by those in his life. In the end, Qauckity lights himself up in the pyre, or so we are led to believe. This was in 1983. 
> 
> Thank you again to https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinegreenapples, who went line by line with me in this chapter, since this is a newer style for me.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27947882 or Fallen Snow by Depressed Pidgen. Also cheerleaded along by many people, but special shoutout to RonnyDonny
> 
> Hope you liked it, and don't forget to comment, because my fragile self-esteem crumbles without them and I am w e a k :)


End file.
